Already the Angel's
Hotel seemed like home to me and after an excellent dinner, I joined the
loungers on the side-walk and became one of a row, seated on chairs
tilted at various angles against the wall of the hotel.
And there I
dozed, watching the passing show between dreams; for in the evening when
the electric lights are on, there is a sort of parade of the youth and
beauty of the town, up and down the winding street.
On account of the great heat that even the dry purity of the Sierra
atmosphere could not altogether mitigate, I decided the next day to be
content with reaching San Andreas, the county seat of Calaveras County,
fifteen miles north of Angel's.
Apart from its name, there is something about San Andreas that suggests
Mexico, or one's idea of pastoral California in the early days of the
American occupation. The streets are narrow and unpaved and during the
midday heat are almost deserted. Business of some sort there must be,
for the little town, though somnolent, is evidently holding its own; but
there seems to be infinite time in which to accomplish whatever the
necessities of life demand. And I may state here parenthetically, that
perhaps the most impressive feature of all the old California mining
towns is their suggestion of calm repose. Each little community seems
sufficient unto itself and entirely satisfied with things as they are.
Not even in the Old World will you find places where the current of life
more placidly flows.
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